Neither Can Live
by Incarnadine
Summary: Harry Potter no longer cares... about anything. And his emotionless state irritates his archrival Draco Malfoy, who feels compelled to do something to make the BoyWhoLived live again. HD slash.


_A/N: Okay, I admit it. I don't own the characters. They are completely and utterly the property of JK Rowling, who owns every fibre of their beings. I, as the author of this piece, make no monetary profit from my creative input. I would, however, welcome your comments. I can take flames, but constructive criticism is preferred. And I'm warning you now, this story is SLASH. If you don't like slash in general or H/D in particular, this story just might not suit you. If you don't _think_ you like slash, there was a time once when I thought _I_ didn't, and now here I am writing it. Read on, if you will, but please don't review to tell me that you dislike the ship. I did warn you._

_This is dedicated to all fellow sailors on the **SS Guns 'n' Handcuffs** on Fiction Alley. Especially **Kai**, everyone's favourite Grammar Nazi, for telling me to write fics. Here it is; my first foray into the world of slash writing. This is also a backlash against the crudely named "H/D is a load of bull" thread on FA, in which people have suggested that Harry no longer cares what Draco thinks, and therefore H/D can no longer happen. Here we go then, folks. I present to you: apathetic!Harry and a lovely H/D moment._

**Neither Can Live**

The wind beat his face until his skin was numb, and yet he could somehow still feel the minute sting of every last icy raindrop. The sky was nowhere in sight; above him, below him and around him was only cloud. As he pulled into a dive, the wind speed increased, lashing him across his face with increased fervour. A stray gust caught his broom tail, and he was whipped over, falling into a spiral, spinning once, twice, three times before he finally regained control. He paused momentarily to let out a long, shaky breath, then darted off to the opposite end of the pitch, looped past one of the goalposts and snatched the Snitch.

He returned to earth, feeling the small ball beating its wings futilely against his firm grasp. He touched down, and then sat in the middle of the pitch in the roaring gale, just staring into space. This was his time, his solitude. This was the one time when he did not have to pretend. It was the only time when he could feel as if he was living; when he was endangering his life on a broom. The sheer speed filled his battered heart with a joy that he could feel no other way. Flying was sometimes the only thing that reminded him that he had a reason to go on existing.

Because that was all he did: exist. Oh, the prophecy was clever. _Neither can live while the other survives_. That meant that until he had defeated Voldemort, until the evil Dark Lord had breathed his last, Harry could not live. He would have to content himself with survival, because it was the only option open to him. And that would make his victory, assuming he won, of course, a hollow one. He would fight his nemesis for a selfish reason: not to make the world a better place, not even to avenge his parents, but to try and claim for himself a real life. He had never really lived before. The only time he came close was when he took to the sky, pitting his strength against the wind and his opponents.

Now, back on the ground, all of the troubles he had been trying to drive away crept back into his mind. The terrible burdens resettled on his shoulders. It was no use trying to hold on to the euphoria he had felt not five minutes ago. It would not return until he flew again. All the time that he was bound to earth, trapped in the real world, he felt the weight of the world's expectations. And more than that, the expectations of his friends, the people he cared about most. The people who he would do anything to save. The people he would never dream of pouring out his heart to, lest it break theirs.

Sitting there, numbed by insidious, gradual hypothermia, he felt safe. Safe, because there was no chance that he could hurt someone. Safe, because he no longer had to pretend to be the champion, the epitome of Gryffindor. There was no need to wear his mask of emotions. He could be what he was: dead and uncaring. He was nameless, out here; he did not have to be what everyone thought he was. He could no longer _feel_. Nothing mattered any longer. Even Snape could no longer touch him with his vicious comments. He no longer felt the urge to rip out the Potions Master's throat every time he was cruel to Neville. He no longer wanted to curse Malfoy every time he called Ron poor or Hermione a Mudblood. He just no longer cared.

He looked at the broom in his hand, and sighed. Even flying was tainted now. It held a bittersweet emotion for him. The broom was from Sirius; Sirius who had said that he was so much like his father, James. Sirius, who was dead because he had cared about Harry. He did not exactly feel guilty anymore, but then he did not feel anything anymore. Sirius's death had left him hollow inside. There was a gap within that nothing could fill. And so, in his everyday life, in the face that he showed to the world, he was more determined to beat Voldemort than ever, to avenge his godfather and to stem his feeling of loss. But to himself, he admitted that all he wanted was to be able to live.

He wanted to be himself, but he had no idea who that was. Sometimes, he wished that he _had_ been put in Slytherin. No one would bother him. No one would care if he was alright or not. No one would worry if he was silent and brooding, or if he wanted to be selfish for once. At that moment, he would have given anything, even the precious Firebolt that he held, to be allowed to sit alone and have mutinous thoughts. He had no wish to join the dark side. He just wished that he was allowed to express his opinions and his doubts without everyone eyeing him as if they thought that he was about to betray them. Was it so wrong to want to err on the side of caution? True, it was not the Gryffindor way, but Harry had ceased to care about that. No one else would die because of him and his overactive hero complex. No one else would die because he, a sixteen year old boy, was not the Messiah they had been promised.

As he sat, trapped in a cage of his own torturous thoughts, Harry was unaware that he was being watched. His solitude, which he had valued so much, was tainted by the presence of another person. And that person was staring at him, slate grey eyes narrowed into puzzled slits. He too had come down to the pitch to escape his housemates and to get a little privacy to think about his life. Draco Malfoy had received a letter from his mother with the news he had been both awaiting and dreading. His father had escaped from prison.

But his father's return and his own predicament had been momentarily forgotten when he had reached the pitch to find his arch-rival, Potter, already in possession. He had slunk to the back of the Slytherin stands, where he felt most at home, and settled down to watch, prepared to be critical. And for the first time in his life he watched Potter fly without envy or hatred, in simple amazement. The boy was a natural in the air. He was beautiful to watch, with his airborne grace that contradicted his normal clumsiness. Draco watched as his enemy performed three stunning loops in the air, followed by a breathtaking burst of speed that ended with the Snitch tucked neatly in the other boy's hand.

Draco knew then why he could never beat Potter at Quidditch, and strangely, for once it didn't bother him so much, probably because he had more important things to worry about. Once his rival landed, he would have returned to his lonely, silent brooding, but for the fact that Potter had all but collapsed on the ground and was staring blankly into space. He seemed unaware of everything, even the freezing rain and the wild, vicious wind.

Draco looked at the other boy's face for a moment, and shivered. It was totally blank and devoid of all feeling. Being a Slytherin, he saw faces like that on a daily basis, but never Potter's. Was it possible that the Gryffindor had the opposite problem? That instead of hiding the emotions he felt, he had to simulate ones that he did not – or could not – feel? It was ridiculous. How could Potter look so _unfeeling_? It was Potter's job to care. Hell, he seemed to dedicate his life to helping others and being sickeningly heroic. And yet some treacherous part of Draco's mind reminded him that his enemy had been different this year, as if nothing anyone could do would hurt him. As if he had simply ceased to care.

And that thought made Draco angry. How could _Potter_ not care any more? That was what he was supposed to do. The Slytherin was no fool; even he could see that the day was not far off when his rival would have to duel the Dark Lord. And how could he do that without caring? In this present state of apathy, he would never be good enough. He would be as surely killed as a sacrificial lamb. Draco couldn't quite see why this bothered him so much. If he wanted his father's side to win, then Potter would have to die anyway. He told himself that he would rather that the Dark Lord got to play with his victim's emotions first, but that explanation did not ring true. He could lie to anyone else, but not to himself. He knew why he cared so much. And he hated it. Why did he have to be human? Why did he have to _care_ about _Harry Potter_ of all people? Why couldn't he just leave well alone?

But the fact remained that he couldn't. Eventually he could no longer bear the sight of the world's chosen hero slumped in numbed depression, so he descended the stands and went over to join him. He did not know what he was going to say. He did not care if he had to be cruel. He just wanted to see an emotion on the boy's pale face. He wanted to watch Potter _feel_. It wasn't right that he should sit there, a horrifically blank expression etched on his features like marble, his green eyes wide and hopeless, as if he was looking at an unimaginably bleak future that he had no desire to face. Someone needed to help him. And at the moment, the only someone anywhere to be seen was Draco Malfoy.

"Running away again, Potter?" Draco was surprised, as always, how harsh he could make his voice sound when he really wanted to.

Harry looked up. Draco Malfoy was standing over him, the trademark smirk on his face, and yet he did not feel the familiar rush of indignation and hatred. He wanted to be left alone, but the passive irritation caused him little discomfort. He found it amusing that he could ever have hated Malfoy. It seemed ridiculous that the boy had once been able to draw a violent reaction from him with his words. Malfoy was nothing now. He did not matter. He could stand and sneer all day, and Harry would continue to feel nothing towards him.

He did not reply. Malfoy, evidently uncomfortable with the silence, said, "Is life too hard for the precious pet of the wizarding world now? Is he still mourning his pathetic _dog_ of a godfather?"

Harry flinched. The mention of Sirius was going too far. But strangely, he felt no anger, only pain. He seemed to be divorced from any passionate emotion, only capable of feeling depression, despair, deadened pain and a strange, alienated sadness. He did not hate Malfoy any more, and he did not understand why the boy was going to such lengths to antagonise him. Couldn't he have got the message by now? Was he too ignorant to see that Harry just did not care?

"I suppose you don't mourn the dead in your family, Malfoy," he replied, coldly but levelly. "But I don't see why you care. You really ought to get inside. It's too cold out here."

"Too cold for anyone but the hero?" retorted Malfoy, hotly. Harry smiled, thinking it ironic that he was now the collected one, while his adversary found it hard to control his emotions.

"Quite," replied Harry, fighting down the urge to declare that he wasn't the hero. He was never going to be the hero. Some people were going to be sadly disappointed. Malfoy looked disappointed at his answer. Damn it, why was he trying so hard to make him angry? Was he still so childish? Surely he couldn't care about Harry's opinion. "But what do you care, Malfoy?" he asked. "I can sit here and drown in my sorrows, and surely you should rejoice, rather than worry about me. Or is it that you'd rather kill me yourself than let the elements do it?"

"No," said Malfoy, hesitantly. Harry thought he saw uncertainty flickering in the other's unfathomable grey eyes. He rallied slightly and continued, "I don't care. It's just wrong to see you like this. You're not meant to be human. You're meant to be Dumbledore's Golden Boy, the heralded hero, the scourge of my kind. You aren't meant to sit and brood in the rain, looking like a Slytherin with your emotionless mask pulled up on your face like that."

"Sometimes real life has a tendency not to be what everyone thinks it should be," Harry replied. He was tired of the conversation. He wished he could go back to the numbed state of extreme cold and let his brain slow down in frozen oblivion. "And I almost _was_ a Slytherin. Sometimes I wish I was. But you still haven't explained why you care. I don't believe any of that. Why would you care if I was human? If I stand between you and what you want, then why should you care if I hurt?"

"I –" Draco was unable to answer. He stuttered for a moment, faltering under the stony green glare. Then he grabbed the boy by the hand and dragged him upright. "I don't _know_ why I care. Maybe it's because I hate you, but you don't seem to give a damn what I do any more. Maybe it's because, deep down, I've always wanted you to notice me. Maybe it's because I have always envied you, and now I can see that what you've got isn't worth envying. Maybe it's because you've just shattered all my illusions about what the world is and what my life should be."

He paused, panting slightly for breath, and Harry's eyes widened. Never had he imagined that Draco would say anything like that. He had never imagined that Malfoy could _feel_ so deeply. Was hate truly that important?

"So you hate me, and because of that you want me to rant at you?" he asked, wearily. "I don't hate you, Draco Malfoy. I couldn't give a flying fuck what you think. I don't want anything to do with you. I used to hate you, but now I don't and I don't think I could feel that strongly about anything at the moment. All I feel is pain. You mean nothing to me. Just leave me."

It was a dismissal, and Draco knew it, but he did not want to leave. There had to be something, anything, that he could do that would get a reaction from the boy. He needed to know if Potter was still alive in there, or if his soul had died but his body was still moving around. So he did the only thing he could think of to do. He pulled the other boy towards him sharply, and he kissed him, deeply, with all the passion of his soul's mingled hatred and love.

At first, Harry was conscious only of surprise. Draco Malfoy was kissing him. His mind whirled. Then the surprise gave way to a not unfamiliar feeling of quiet euphoria. It was like flying. It was almost like living. It was everything, and yet it was not enough. But he knew that it was all there would ever be, knew it without sadness or regret. He did not break away. He couldn't. Something burnt in his veins, something he had forgotten all about: happiness. It was odd, but he was actually happy to be kissed by his enemy. And he kissed back, naturally, compulsively. It was all he could do. The feeling possessed him like a drug, and he had no choice but to give in.

Eventually, after a minute and an eternity, he pulled back, breaking the contact, and regarded Malfoy. The blond boy had a look in his eyes that Harry had never seen before, and he realised that that was because he had never seen any emotion other than anger or hatred on the aristocratic face. And this was raw emotion. There was hatred there, but it was diluted by an unnerving look of passion that caused Harry's stomach to lurch. He had never thought that anyone would look at him that way, much less Malfoy.

"We can't do this, Malfoy."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "That's it? I kiss you and that's all you can say? Aren't you disgusted, horrified, angry, turned on, anything? Don't you feel anything any more?"

Harry felt an irrational stab of guilt at making Malfoy angry. Guilt was one thing he had not forgotten how to feel in his numbed state. He didn't understand it. Didn't understand why Malfoy had kissed him, why he had kissed back, why he had _enjoyed_ it, why he felt guilty about upsetting the boy afterwards. Nothing made sense to him. His senses were in a whirl, and he felt faintly sick.

"No, Malfoy, I don't feel anything any more," he replied, sadly. "There's this prophecy, you see. I can't tell you all of it, because you'll just go running to daddy with the details, but there's one line: _neither can live while the other survives_. And that means that I can't really live while Voldemort's alive. I can't do anything but survive. I can't feel any emotions anymore, since Sirius died, since I knew about the prophecy. With that hanging over my head, I don't feel normal. I can't enjoy anything. It feels as if I'm not taking my destiny seriously."

Malfoy spat. Harry never thought to see the elegant boy make such a vulgar gesture. "_Destiny?_ No such thing, Potter. Just because some crackpot seer says you can't enjoy life while some half-crazed bastard's still breathing doesn't mean it's _true_. I mean, I've heard of self fulfilling prophecies before, but this is just stupid. You _can _live, Potter, if you want to."

"And I suppose you could abandon your father's cause, if you wanted to."

"_Touché,_ Potter," smiled Malfoy. Harry couldn't remember ever having seen him smile before. It was surreal, like hearing a lion purr. "But who said that I won't? I just called the Dark Lord a half-crazed bastard. Does that sound like the endearments of a devoted follower to _you,_ Potter?"

"Shouldn't I be Harry, now you've kissed me?" asked Harry, feeling a familiar fire of indignation creeping back into his heart. Not just directed at Malfoy, but at Trelawney, Dumbledore and the Order – and everyone else who expected him to be their model hero. Malfoy was right, for once. He could feel. The flying proved that, and the kiss. He realised with a jolt that he _needed_ his enemy. He needed Malfoy around to feel human, just as the other boy thrived from their adversity. But how much longer would it be adversity?

"Perhaps," Malfoy said, the smile creeping across his face and finally reaching his eyes. "As long as I am Draco."

"Fine, Draco." Harry rolled his eyes. "This doesn't mean I like you."

"I don't expect you to like me," said Draco, bluntly. "I expect you to hate me. But I also expect that, when we're together, you actually _live_. You need some time when you don't think about battles or prophecies, or good and evil. You need some time to be yourself. I offer you that time. And I make no promises. I can only offer you more of the same."

Harry thought for only a minute. He had not felt so truly alive in months. It was a lot less inconvenient than finding time to fly, as well, and being with Mal – Draco did not depend on the weather. So he nodded, and he accepted Draco's renewed kiss gladly, feeling in the touching of their skin his emotions flowing steadily back into his shattered core, not healing but still soothing. As he allowed his arms to slip around his rival, and let his tongue slip between parted teeth, he thought, defiantly, that it would take a good deal more than a Dark Lord and a stupid prophecy to stop Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, from living.


End file.
